


Protected

by secret_ivy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Don't copy to another site, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21680392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_ivy/pseuds/secret_ivy
Summary: When Mycroft Holmes joins the SIS, he completes Registration as required by law.Mycroft Edward HolmesSoulmate Status: Deceased
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 43
Kudos: 262
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	Protected

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Soulmate!AU where some people are born with the first name of their soulmate on their arm
> 
> 2\. Wrote this in 3 nights instead of sleeping. If I don’t post this now, it’ll never go up. Any errors are mine.
> 
> 3\. Update (Feb. 11, 2020) - So, I originally was inspired to write this fic because of the announcement/interest last year for a Mystrade Soulmate Week. And now it has arrived. Special thanks to AvidReader79 for all the positive vibes and reminder.

Violet and Siger Holmes are not soulmates.

His mother was not born with a mark. His father's mark abruptly faded on June 7, 1951. 

Mycroft knows, with absolute certainty, that they love each other deeply. If circumstances had been different, they would still choose each other, to not give up the life they built together.

He thinks about this, and the letters on his arm. Bold, solid lines. Angled, as if written at speed, and yet there's a softness in the curve of the _G_ that Mycroft traces on nights when he lays in bed unable to sleep.

He thinks about soulmates, and choice, and the cost of becoming what he'll be, for Queen and Country.

\---

Melinda and Francis Lestrade are soulmates.

Greg Lestrade has watched the mandatory school videos of _What to Expect When You Meet Your Soulmate_, Registration, etc. His older sister sighs at the telly whenever fictional soulmates meet for the first time.

_Soulmates are fated, cherished, and protected._

This does not stop his parents from screaming at each other on a daily basis, nor the neighbors from calling the police.

The name on his arm is unique. Easy to find. He learns early on to keep it covered unless showering.

But Greg doesn't go searching. He decides, when his mum leaves to stay with his aunt and never comes back, that he isn't going to force himself on the poor bastard. That Fate can go shove itself into the Thames.

He doesn't think about all the reasons he chooses to become a police officer, then a detective.

* * *

When Mycroft Holmes joins the SIS, he completes Registration as required by law.

_Mycroft Edward Holmes_

_Soulmate Status: Deceased_

_Soulmate Name: N/A_

Where a mark should be on his arm, there is now a block of black ink and healed skin.

No one on their side is so tactless as to use it against him. He buys a gold ring as a shield and learns to not feel guilt when they look at him with pity.

\---

When Greg Lestrade joins the police force, he completes Registration as required by law.

_Gregory Nathaniel Lestrade_

_Soulmate Status: Alive_

_Soulmate Name: Redacted and encrypted as mandated by the Law Enforcement and Armed Forces Safety Act (LEAF-SA)_

At home, he still wears a loose arm cuff made of cotton, but at work, he takes to wearing a treated leather brace that buckles quickly on and off.

Greg appreciates it one day when a kitchen knife gets pulled during a domestic call. He has to replace the brace, but the skin underneath remains untouched.

* * *

Mycroft, over the years, isn't without people in his bed. But they never stay longer than a few nights, fewer if they take to staring at his tattoo too long.

They think something in him is broken, tragic, novel. Enough to try their hand at him, but not dive deeper.

As he carves out a specialist role, he stops taking lovers. It makes focusing on the work easier.

\---

Greg meets Julie during his first year on the force, through a friend of a friend.

Her mark reads _Nathan_. They both know it isn't a reference to his middle name, but that doesn't stop them from flirting and falling in love and eventually getting married.

Their marriage is good, until it isn't. Greg doesn't find out how not good until years from now.

* * *

A detective has taken an interest in his brother. Not unusual, but this man has been on seen on CCTV speaking to his brother three times. Each time, Sherlock appears more sober than the last. 

He doesn't realize his palm is over his sleeve, above his tattoo, until a moment later. He mentally sneers at himself, slapping his hand down flat on the desk. Thankfully, he is alone in the room.

Daydreaming that this particular "Greg" is his soulmate is absurd. As if he would appear at this precise moment, a white knight riding to save his brother from the insidiousness of drug addiction. When all of his own efforts have come to nothing. When he's already calculated the odds, over and over.

"Anthea, invite Detective Lestrade for a meeting tomorrow night. I'd like to introduce myself."

\---

Greg, as a normal human being and a member of law enforcement, understandably, does not take well to being kidnapped.

Once the black bag is off his head, he doesn't give the suited man time to get pass, "Detective Lestrade, I'd like to discuss a mutual aq-," before Greg is struggling, briefly breaking free to lunge forward, and subsequently tackled onto the concrete by two very tall bodyguards. The other man's loafers gleam in the flood lights. 

Greg hears a sigh from the kidnapper, as if deeply disappointed by the detective's actions. Greg is suddenly, inescapably furious at this bastard. 

And then the bastard goes and _tries to bribe him_.

\---

That could have gone better, Mycroft concedes, days afterward. 

\---

"Ah, you've met Fatcroft then. How much did he offer this time? £50,000? One hundred?"

"It doesn't matter how much! You explain to me what in the hell is happening! What kind of shit are you involved in? Who is he?"

Something scratches at the back of Greg's brain, but he's too wired and angry to notice. He wants answers first.

"My brother," huffs Sherlock, his eyes closing momentarily in disgust, "is an overreaching, overbearing man who continues to dog me on a regular basis."

"Your brother!"

Sherlock hums and opens his eyes to stare at Greg. They narrow. "You refused. Even before he gave you a price."

"Of course I bloody refused! I'm a goddamn copper, or did you conveniently forget?"

The younger man groans. "He'll never stop bothering you now. You will be receiving phone calls from an unknown number soon - answer them. If you do not, he'll find other, more direct ways of harassing you." 

Greg knows his face has morphed into something that can never leave Sherlock's questionable flat. He takes a moment to rub his eyes with his hands and suck in some deep breaths. Maybe punch the crummy sofa cushion he's sitting on several times.

Then: "What is he?" _Who the hell can pull a copper off the street in front of a police station and not have a single report or witness to it?_

Sherlock closes his eyes again, as if even thinking about it gives him a headache. "Mycroft Holmes. The British Government, _the real one, _the man behind the curtain. He's the most dangerous man you will ever meet, so tread carefully here, Lestrade, for your own sake."

Of course, the younger Holmes brother doesn't see the exact moment Greg's brain implodes.

He, however, correctly deduces Lestrade's hasty retreat as being caused by overwhelming emotion. Just not exactly the right one.

* * *

Mycroft spends the next 72 hours dealing with a stressful situation involving oil price manipulation in Brazil. Anthea continues to monitor Sherlock and Lestrade for him.

(He doesn't think about, that for all his fantasies about his soulmate, they never felt as inciting as meeting a man with blunt, stubborn loyalty and expressive brown eyes.)

\---

Greg spends the next 72 hours avoiding anyone with the last name Holmes.

And processing the fact that his soulmate is the British Government, kidnaps people with impunity, and is related to none other than Sherlock goddamn Holmes.

He calls in sick on the fourth day.

* * *

These are the times Greg has thought about telling Mycroft:

The fifth day. The day after that.

The first phone call.

The first time he's summoned to a posh club and every time after.

In a dim hospital room, sharing silence and cooling tea, waiting for Sherlock to wake up after an overdose.

After the divorce. 

Over lunches. Over dinners.

In the dark, laying awake on his bed, nails digging into his bare arm. Wondering if soulmates are actually fated; if Mycroft knows and doesn't want a soulmate to be tied to; knows and doesn't want him.

\---

Mycroft calculated the odds of meeting his soulmate a long, long time ago. 

He made his choice, for Queen and Country. A name swallowed up in black ink and lies (_protected_).

He doesn't think to look.

* * *

* * *

* * *

"He asked me to check in, like a good lad. Can you imagine?"

Gregory is ruefully smiling, while his eyes are serious. The look is familiar to Mycroft, after all these years. 

"Difficult to, but we are softening in our old age." A joke, a flat one, but the silver-haired man doesn't seem to mind. Without another word, Mycroft steps back and opens the door wider. 

Greg steps in and scans the foyer, shifts his shoulders as if about to remove his outer jacket but doesn't do so. 

The elder Holmes abruptly realizes the DCI has never been to his home. The Whitehall flat he keeps for appearance's sake, yes, but not this house. Mycroft's entire security staff know Lestrade either by reputation or personal interaction, but still, the man isn't cleared to know this address. _Sherlock_, Mycroft realizes, a small riot of emotion hitting him. He needs to keep himself occupied.

"Can I offer you a drink, detective? Water or otherwise." They walk together side by side into the kitchen. In one corner is a small bar area with a water filter and liquor cabinet. 

"Greg. We're definitely not on the clock, Mycroft." Greg does remove his outer jacket then, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. Underneath is a familiar dark blue suit, wrinkled by the long day.

Mycroft notes, for a split second, the disruption of the suit sleeve where Greg's brace is. (He always takes note of it.)

"Gregory, then," Mycroft says, nothing catching on the syllables. "Wine?"

"Beer?" 

"Brandy?" Mycroft raises the bottle and an eyebrow. Greg laughs, and something eases in the air.

"Yeah, sure. I think we've earned something a little harder."

\---

Dark out and half the bottle gone between them, Greg asks, "What's the damage?"

They each occupy separate couches in the living room. Greg, buzzed and enjoying the butter-soft leather cushion against his cheek, is laying down on his side. His suit jacket is on the floor next to the couch, having slipped off an arm, but neither of them having the mind or will to pick it up. 

Mycroft is laying flat on his back, sinking a bit into the cushions, blinking up at the ceiling, a mostly empty brandy glass balanced on his stomach. "I shouldn't tell you."

Greg, with the logic of the drunk, responds with, "You could, though, couldn't you. Just here, just lil old me, us, in your own house. Can keep a secret, you know. Nice couch, by the way, very soft." He rubs his face against the cushion again.

Mycroft blinks some more at the ceiling, then narrows his eyes at it. A minute passes. "I know too much and do too much. I will be removed from certain projects, in a word, as punishment, but otherwise, the world will continue to move on."

"That doesn't seem so bad?" 

Mycroft frowns, then turns his head to look at Greg. "I have spend decades protecting this country and its secrets. Making decisions faster than anyone else. Acting where others faltered or were too cowardly to do so. Sherrinford," he can't say her name, as if giving it to Gregory was no different from poisoning him, "exposed my weaknesses, many of them. I cannot be trusted to do what I used to. I shouldn't be."

Greg breathes deep, suddenly much more sober than before. "That's dumb."

Mycroft blinks at the simple statement. Then, a short burst of laughter. He places his brandy glass on the coffee table between them, still laughing. He covers his face with his hands, still laughing.

Something is off about it, though, Greg can tell. So, he pushes himself up, steadying, and takes a few steps. Greg sits on the table, knees inches from Mycroft, who is still making some kind of muffled noise behind his hands.

"Mycroft."

The noise lessens, until it becomes a series of low, hitched breathes. 

"Mycroft," Greg calls again. When he gets no response, he slowly places a hand on the other man's wrist, unknowingly close to his tattoo. 

The other man lifts the hands from his face, not fast or hard enough to dislodge the hand holding onto him. He knows his face is a blotchy red, the corners of his eyes not dry. Mycroft stares at Greg, at this soft man in his home, and something comes undone in his chest. "I wish you were him."

Greg blinks his brown eyes at him. "What."

But it's too late now. His first and most fatal weakness. So he reaches with his free hand to brush against the back of Greg's, before resting over his own shirt sleeve. "_Gregory_."

The other man is still looking at him, his face changing to something unreadable to Mycroft. 

"You- you mean to tell me - what do you mean 'I wish'?" Greg lets go of Mycroft's wrist, unable to look away from the arm he just touched.

Mycroft feels all the brandy warmth rush away. "Gregory, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-." He stops there, when Greg frames his face with warm hands.

"Mycroft, listen to me. Answer me. What the hell do you mean by 'I wish you were him'? I'm already your-," Greg chokes, realization dawning. "Jesus Christ, you don't know. You don't know."

Greg lets go. Quickly undoes his shirt cuff to get at his brace. Unbuckles it and lets it drop in the space between them.

And as if for the first time in his life, Mycroft sees his name. 


End file.
